And it would be an irrevocable
loss. He would never again have courage to weave the threads of his
existence into another such goodly pattern. Even if he had the
courage, he would never have the chance. No such fortuitous
circumstances would ever again throw him into the arms of a
woman,--not such a woman as Doris Cleveland.
Hollister looked at her beside him, and his heart ached to think that
presently she might not sit so with her hand on his knee, looking up
at him with lips parted in a happy smile, gray eyes eager with
anticipation under the long, curving, brown lashes. She was so very
dear to him. Not alone because of the instinctive yearning of flesh to
flesh, not altogether because of the grace of her vigorous young body,
the comeliness of her face, the shining coils of brown hair that gave
him a strange pleasure just to stroke. Not alone because of the quick,
keen mind that so often surprised him by its sureness. There was some
charm more subtle than these, something to which he responded without
knowing clearly what it was, something that made the mere knowledge of
her presence in his house a comfort, no matter whether he was beside
her or miles away.
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